


The Cute-agen Chronicles

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Asexual Character, Crack Treated Seriously, Cutagens | Cute Effects of Mutagens (The Witcher), Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27177256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: The Witchers display the traits of the animals to which they are affiliated via their mutagens. This is just a whole lot of cute, with not a lot of plot.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gaetan/Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Guxart/Keldar/Vesemir (The Witcher)
Comments: 335
Kudos: 711
Collections: Vipurr: A Collection of Cat and Snake in Love (or just Murder Husbands)





	1. Wolves at Play 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _derspatz asked: "Im OBSESSED with the cute mutagens and I love your writing so much. Could I suggest a prompt? Jaskier staying in Kaer Morhen for the first time with the wolf pack (throw Aiden in there if you like, the kneading fic was so fucking adorable) and losing his absolute mind over how CUTE they are when they let their instincts take over. Just... purring, yapping, kneading, licking into each other's mouths as a greeting, scenting, howling at the moon, chasing squirrels... anything you wanna throw in there. They are usually more reserved on the Path, but when they come back home and relax everything just comes out double force and Jaskier is IN LOVE."_
> 
> Jaskier is privy to the rare sight of Witchers at play…

Geralt was nervous about Jaskier visiting Kaer Morhen. They’d been friends for near a decade, but this was the first time he’d ever suggested they winter together. For his part, Jaskier had never been more excited about something in his life. He knew the names and the vague, monosyllabic descriptions attached to them courtesy of his laconic Witcher companion, but he longed to infuse his imagination with the colour and energy of the real thing.

Eskel. Lambert. Vesemir. Aiden. Perhaps even Letho, and Gaetan. Names meant adventures. Adventures meant stories. Stories meant songs. Oh, how he _longed_ to immortalise the cutting sarcasm of Lambert, or the gentle, loving heart of Eskel. He just needed _material_ , dear reader. And he knew Kaer Morhen would be brimming with it.

“Jaskier, there’s something I haven’t mentioned,” Geralt said over the campfire barely a day out. “When we’re at home, we – Witchers – behave a bit differently.” 

“Of course you do. Who wouldn’t when at home and hearth? I would expect nothing less,” Jaskier beamed over the flames.

“Hm,” Geralt remarked, and then poked at the logs as they popped and disintegrated in the heat. “Well, just… don’t be surprised.”

“I’ve been walking at your side for nigh on ten years. Short of Vesemir turning out to be a deity, or Lambert a goat, I don’t think much could phase me.”

_He was not prepared._

The first dinner was raucous – full of boisterous laughter, the expected stories and plentiful alcohol – but nothing untoward. Indeed, even the first day – training, chores, a tour of the castle – all very _as expected_. Lambert and Eskel were breath-taking, and Aiden’s sharp sense of humour was almost enough to take the edge off the disappointment when the promised Last Viper didn’t show. And as far as behaviour went – well, Geralt was no different. A few more smiles here and there and a softness to his face, but still very _Geralt._

And then… they started to _unwind._

It all started out very slowly.

Lambert chased a squirrel across the parapets of the outer walls but stopped immediately when he saw Jaskier watching him. Later the same day he sat down opposite Aiden to assist in chopping some herbs for dinner when the Cat looked up and began to stare at a point over his shoulder. Jaskier looked behind him hesitantly, expecting to see a wraith melting from the grey walls.

_Nothing._

He looked back. Aiden was still staring, pupils narrowed to slits, face completely impassive. Jaskier opened his mouth to ask, but the Witcher looked back to his work suddenly and without comment.

_Alright. A little strange._

One evening Eskel and Geralt began to play fight in front of the fire. Geralt knocked Eskel’s book from his hands, antagonising him into a confrontation, and then pinned him to the floor with a feral snarl. Jaskier, who until this point had been plucking idly at his lute, gazed on with wide eyes, but both the others seemed unphased. Geralt snapped and mouthed at Eskel’s neck and shoulders, while the larger Witcher bowled him over to do the same. A cacophony of growls, yips and snapping teeth rose up from the tangle of limbs upon the rug, until finally Eskel pressed his open mouth over Geralt’s.

The White Wolf fell still, and when Eskel pulled away tilted his head back to expose his throat. With a pleased huff, Eskel leaned back down and nosed soft skin, before accepting tentative, submissive licks on the underside of his chin with a contented growl. 

_Well… that wasn’t arousing at all._

From that moment on, Jaskier could only watch with barely contained glee as his band of Witchers began to display more traits linked to the mutagens coursing through their veins with each passing day. 

When he got lost and stumbled across Lambert in the recesses of the keep one afternoon, he asked after Geralt only for the Witcher to throw his head back and howl. The throaty worble echoed through the cavernous halls in isolation for a handful of seconds, before three more voices joined the chorus. Lambert sniffed, head tilted to the side. “Geralt’s in the east wing, c’mon, I’ll take you.”

They preferred to sleep together in a pile around the fire, limbs tangled together, heads on soft bellies and barrelled chests, with Vesemir on the edge to watch over his pups in their slumber. The old man was more reserved, preferring to watch on as his sons chased each other around the keep and played in the courtyard than partake himself. But even he displayed his wolfish side one evening when he bit Lambert’s ear in reprimand for cheek. The youngest wolf yelped, bared his teeth, only to think better of it moments later when Vesemir’s eyes narrowed. 

Aiden too seemed to be melding with his inner feline. He kneaded Lambert contentedly in the evenings with long, indulgent flexes of his hands, before settling down to groom him. His tongue rasped through Lambert’s beard, across his head, behind his ears, down his neck; the wolf fussed at first but always rolled over. They retired to Lambert’s room before it got any more intimate, but would return later sated and smelling of sex. For Aiden adored his wolf, and Jaskier often found him watching the pack train, pupils blown so wide they swallowed his entire iris, chest vibrating with a deep purr that would rival the thunder of a summer storm.

Not all of Aiden’s behaviours were adorable though. Geralt knocked him down in training one morning, and then retired to bed that very same evening to find a drowner brain soaking into his linen sheets. While Eskel gloated over a game of Gwent and then pulled his boots on later only to have his toes squelch through two half desiccated rat carcasses. Revenge was a dish best served bloody, apparently.

As the weeks went by, Jaskier was fully inducted into Kaer Morhen’s odd little family. They sniffed and scented him as if he were one of their own; Eskel grabbed his jaw one day and licked into his mouth without warning. When Jaskier turned red, flustered and abashed, Eskel smiled shyly. “Sorry, you just looked a bit pale… I, uh, do you want some mead?” Geralt told him later it was a health check. _Well, a daily check up was definitely in order, couldn’t fall ill while so far up in the mountains, no sir._

They yipped, barked, nuzzled, howled at the gibbous moon, ran through the fresh winter snows after fleeing game in just their trousers. Chests and feet bare, eyes wild. The three younger wolves brought down a deer between them with just their hands, wits and speed. Jaskier had never seen Geralt so relaxed, _so effortlessly happy._ At home, with his family, he could be his true self.

The winter drew to an end. Spring and the Path beckoned them back, but they still had a few precious days left together. Jaskier sat in an armchair and gazed down at the pile of Witchers before him. He held a quill in one hand, the pot of ink perched precariously by his elbow, with his notebook open on his lap. What would the world think if they knew what happened to Witchers in the winter? What would they say when they discovered that wolf Witchers played and hunted as a pack? How would they react to a Cat Witcher that kneaded his lover with his tongue sticking out, eyes hazy with bliss? Would they hear his purr and bask in the warmth of its love?

_No._

Jaskier placed the quill down in the centrefold of his notebook and closed it.

The Continent wouldn’t see the beauty in his Witchers’ feral abandon. They’d see only the beast. 

Jaskier slipped from his chair and found himself a comfortable spot before the fire, happy to revel in the familial love of his Witcher pack and this rare moment of true happiness.

Some songs - the rarest, _sweetest_ songs - were best left safe inside the heart.


	2. Wolves at Play 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _havenoffandoms asked: "I loved your little blurp about Aiden kneading Lambert's body. Too cute 😍 makes me wonder what the wolf witchers would do... I can see them being super needy and vocal like huskies. Just imagine Lambert waggling his butt because he's so excited to see Aiden, or Geralt and Eskel requesting belly rubs from Jaskier.... I just love the idea of witchers acting like puppies."_
> 
> Wolf Witchers are puppies. That’s it. That’s the fic’.

It took Jaskier a little while to ingratiate himself with the wolves of Kaer Morhen. His first winter they were somewhat guarded; Lambert squinted at him suspiciously even as he pulled Geralt close by the jaw and licked into his gods-damned mouth. _Full eye contact._ _Challenging_ Jaskier to protest. Geralt explained later that it was an instinct left over from their mutagens; wolves licked into each other’s mouths to check the health of their comrade. Lambert had just enough restraint to stop himself doing it to Vesemir.

The first ‘wolf pile’ Jaskier saw was potentially the most adorable thing in existence. They lounged over each other by the fire, Eskel on the bottom, arms sprawled, with Geralt draped over his stomach and Lambert resting his head on his thick chest. Once his chores were done, Vesemir joined them, offering his plush stomach for Eskel’s head and taking the time to pet each of his boys as they dozed.

Occasionally someone would growl or huff in their sleep, feet and hands flicking, lips twitching. They were hunting something. Running through the dark woodlands of the Continent in their dreams, slaying mighty monsters, even in the sanctity of their own home. Jaskier longed to join them in their comfortable heap by the fire, but for the first winter he stayed in his armchair and recorded his memoirs.

By the second, he was well within their good graces. His songs had spread the length and breadth of the Continent, boosting the good name of the Witcher brotherhood. Both Eskel and Lambert reported a comfortable year on the Path - as comfortable as such a year could be - and greeted Jaskier with firm embraces when he walked through the gates of the courtyard. No health check kisses though.

The third winter, they were joined by another Witcher. A Cat. Aiden. Jaskier fell in love swiftly, because Aiden was an absolute bloody delight. He purred and chirped; frolicked with Lambert, rubbed up against him, kneaded him. His wit was sharp and his will strong; on the fourth evening, when the pack collapsed into their pile, Aiden grabbed the bard by the elbow and hauled him into the middle of it. Tentative at first, Jaskier settled down between Geralt and Eskel as Aiden curled up on top of Lambert, who only grunted a brief protest.

Geralt smiled sleepily and nosed along Jaskier’s jaw with a contented sigh, one muscular arm looping over his waist to pull him close. It was warm, comfortable and entirely surreal. The Witchers had spent an hour lounging around in the springs and Jaskier could smell the lightly fragranced soaps on their skin. In a half doze, he reached out for Eskel, fingers slipping beneath his jaw to his hairline; he didn’t know what possessed him to do it, but he’d seen Geralt do it and… well, who could blame him for wanting to touch Eskel?

The Witcher watched him with those beautiful amber eyes, pupils big, face serene and then grunted happily when Jaskier began to scritch gently behind his ear. Eskel tilted his head into the fuss, guiding Jaskier’s fingers to the dip just behind his jaw and then around the back of his neck. The bard blinked when he was jostled lightly, and he peered down the length of Eskel’s solid frame to see his leg flicking in an uncontrolled spasm. The firmer Jaskier scritched, the wider his circles, the quicker Eskel’s leg moved.

_Oh, he liked it._

Like a giant, fluffy wolf.

Jaskier swallowed his squeak of glee, working his way over the rest of Eskel’s scalp and neck. Geralt’s eyes popped open to watch, lips tilted down into Jaskier’s hair, as he lifted one hand lazily and then scooped up beneath Eskel’s shirt. The big Witcher flopped over onto his back with a delighted groan as Geralt began to rub and tickle his belly. Jaskier chuckled. “He’s just a big puppy…”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed, amused, but Eskel was too far gone to protest his new moniker; his eyes were closed, lips parted, leg twitching enthusiastically as both Jaskier and Geralt worked on all the spots that made him weak. Belly, behind the ears, neck, scalp, chest… yeah, Eskel just loved affection. By the time they were finished with him, he was completely spaced, and rolled over to burrow against Jaskier, bracketing the small bard between himself and Geralt.

Later that evening, Aiden and Jaskier had all three of their wolves melting into the bearskin rug under their hands; tongues lolling, eyes rolling and legs twitching. Lambert liked his beard stroked, Geralt was all about the base of his neck and Eskel was just one big growly, demanding pile who wanted to be petted _everywhere._

Big scary Witchers - _ha!_ If only people knew.


	3. Chase the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _angry-cajun-lady asked: "Vipurr or Lambden, maybe both? It's a favorite activity (discovered seperately maybe?). That chasing a tiny light gets their Cats all worked up. The thrill of the hunt and the chase getting them all hot and bothered."_
> 
> Lambert gets out of paying a wager...

“Pay up, baby wolf,” Aiden beckoned with his fingers as the last few Gwent cards hit the table. “Best of three and I won two. No extensions.”

“You cheated. Again,” Lambert huffed, fists clenched next to his obliterated deck as his mind cycled back through the last few plays. They’d been drinking and playing cards in the kitchen for the last hour since the others had gone to bed - to fuck, not to sleep, Lambert couldn’t miss Eskel’s raging hard-on as he followed Geralt’s ass up the stairs - but Lambert’s senses weren’t dulled enough to miss a con. “There’s no way you coulda’ beaten my monster deck.”

“You gonna’ keep moaning or you gonna’ just pay up so we can go to bed?”

Lambert narrowed his eyes, teeth grinding, and then the fire flickered off of Aiden’s medallion. The Cat looked up quickly, following the little orb of light until his pendant slid beneath his shirt and the reflection disappeared. Oh yeah. 

“Lambert…” Aiden warned, because he met those cunning eyes and saw the mischief flare to life in them.

The Wolf didn’t reply, only reached into his shirt and pulled out his own medallion. Now, all he needed to do was get the angle just right and… oh, there we are. The refracted light appeared on the dark flagstones to Aiden’s right and the Cat immediately tensed, pupils blown wide. “Go get it, kitty.”

“You… bastard…” Aiden breathed, nails biting into the edge of the table.

“Mmhm. Go on. Look at the light,” Lambert tilted his medallion so that the light whizzed across to the opposite wall, and Aiden’s head snapped to the left to follow it. “Don’t you want it? It’s mocking you, Aiden.”

The Cat Witcher was almost shaking with the need to chase. His teeth clenched, his shoulders bunched. It _was_ mocking him. Look at it flicker and move. It thought it was so quick, but he could catch it - he -

 _No._ I am a human man, I am not a cat, I am not a cat, _I am not -_

He flew from his seat, leaving the chair to clatter to the floor, and hurled himself after that tiny ball of light as it flitted to and fro across the kitchen. Pots, pans, boxes of dried herbs; nothing survived Aiden’s hunt and soon the kitchen looked like a mini hurricane had blown through. Lambert guffawed as he led Aiden on his merry chase, finally allowing him to ‘capture’ the light at the end of the table. His Cat was all hot, flustered, red-cheeked and panting. 

Lambert hummed. “Yeah, I’m ready for bed now.”

“Hope you didn’t plan on sleeping, or sitting tomorrow,” Aiden grated out, the corner of his eye twitching, one part irritation, one part bubbling excitement after his ‘hunt’. Lambert just grinned, winked and fled off up the stairs, his Cat in close pursuit.


	4. Murder Chirp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brrrpp. Ah-ah-ow. Brrr-oww. Mrrr. Brrrrp-ahh-ow.

_Four days._ They’d tracked this damned thing for four days. Letho was about to throw in the towel, take an easy assassination two towns over, gorge himself on food and then collapse in front of a fire somewhere for a long nap. But the keen glint of excitement in Gaetan’s eye had convinced him to press on. His little Cat was a small, fierce ball of energy when on a contract, and the post-hunt sex was never anything to sniff at. All that athletic muscle taut and glistening with sweat, and –

_Focus, Letho._

Wyvern first. Dick later.

The beast had landed near a fast-flowing river for a drink; its first rest stop in about two hours. The two Witchers crouched in the underbrush, obscured by the long shadows cast by a setting sun. A well-placed knife would hamstring it long enough to –

_“Brrp.”_

Letho’s gaze snapped left and narrowed in on Gaetan. His Cat crouched low to the floor, his eyes swallowed by the expanse of his pupils as he eyed his prey. His mouth was clamped shut, his hand already curling around the hilt of the sword on his back, Letho looked away. _Must be hearing things._ Hunger always did funny things to his –

_“Brrr-ooww.”_

Definitely not hearing things. Letho hunkered down as the wyvern flicked its tail. “Gaeten,” he hissed. “What the fuck?” 

“Sorry,” Gaetan grinned, sheepish. “Thrill of the hunt, y’know?” 

“Thrill of the hunt?”

“S’murder chirp. For murder.”

“A murder ch - ?” 

A low, rumbling growl distracted his attention. The wyvern’s wings flexed, its head tilted to the side. _Listening._

“Ahh-ahh-brrrpp.” Gaetan chirped, practically shaking with coiled tension, and then sprinted from the brush. Letho only just managed to keep up with him. Between them, the wyvern didn’t last long. The agile kitty dodged beneath the swinging, barbed club of its tail and eviscerated it while Letho gripped its snapping jaws.

As the beast lay dead at their feet, Gaetan placed his sword at its side and turned to Letho. Two bloodied hands reached out to settle on the Viper’s chest and the Cat arched into a deep, contented stretch. His murderous instinct to hunt the flying thing appeased by their successful kill. 

Letho hummed appreciatively. “You’re fuckin’ weird, you know that?”

“Mm,” Gaetan smirked, one pointed canine poking out from beneath his upper lip. “Wanna’ fuck?” 

“More than anythin’ on the Continent,” Letho chucked his dual swords to the floor and scooped that small, toned form from the floor. Lithely muscled legs wrapped his waist as he carried his Cat towards a stout tree. What was a little murder chirping between lovers?


	5. Groom for Dominance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letho brings Gaetan with him to winter at Kaer Morhen. Aiden has to assert dominance…

Letho spent a few winters at Kaer Morhen here and there. He usually turned up looking as worn as everyone else, pulled his weight through the cold months with the chores, and then left as soon as the snow thawed. However, one year, he brought a companion. Not necessarily a problem - the keep was big enough for hundreds, so one more wasn’t much strain on space - but that very same year, Lambert _also_ brought a… _friend._

Both the guests happened to be from the same school. The School of Cat.

Everyone knew what happened when Cats met. The rumours had been whispered around Witcher circles for years. There would be claws, teeth and blood. Blood everywhere. Having more than a single cat in one place was a recipe for disaster.

The Wolves, bard and Aiden were in the Grand Hall when the Viper’s huge shoulders darkened the doorway. With a grunt of effort, he helped Vesemir shut the wind and snow flurries outside, before heading straight towards the fire to warm his frozen limbs.

Aiden sat up suddenly as a familiar face emerged from behind Letho’s cloak; a shaven head, scar down his left cheek and a slender build.

“Gaetan,” Aiden hissed, and left the bench before Lambert could grab hold of him.

“Oh fuck, here we go,” Geralt grumbled into his flagon, but made no move to leave his seat.

Letho, who was too tired to intervene, simply smirked, holding his hands out towards the fire to warm. Eskel leaned on the heel of his hand and watched with a raised eyebrow, while Vesemir gathered up empty plates. In fact, the only people who seemed remotely alarmed were Lambert and Jaskier. They left their seats in preparation for bloodshed. Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure what he’d be able to do against a Witcher - let alone _two -_ but he had his lute _ready._

The Cats circled each other, nostrils flaring, feline eyes blown wide. Both growled low in their throats, with occasional spikes in pitch to a yowl.

“Aiden, c’mon, leave it. It’s not wo–,” Lambert tried, but was silenced by a raised palm. _This was important._ They had to sort it now for the rest of the winter to pass peacefully. With a soft hiss, Aiden leapt forward and–

–started to lick Gaetan’s face _aggressively._

Or tried to. Gaetan angled his head away and Aiden succeeded only in getting his neck, while trying to fend off a returned ‘assault’. Lambert and Jaskier stood a couple of metres away, stunned. They only jolted forward when Aiden wound back and threw a punch that floored Gaetan immediately; the larger Cat pounced forward and pinned his smaller brother to the floor, still licking madly at his face only to be headbutted away.

It continued for several minutes. Frantic, aggressive grooming mixed with occasional flurries of violence until Aiden smacked Gaetan so hard his head swam and he slumped, dazed. He sprawled helplessly on his back as Aiden licked repeatedly up the ridge of his nose to the point between his eyebrows. It was swift at first - lick, lick, lick - then slowed gradually. Split lips and scratched faces leaked blood over bruised skin, and then they started making a new sound.

They were _purring._ A symphony of low rumbles from deep in their chests that made Lambert, who stood closest, feel rather warm and fucking fuzzy on the inside. After a few more licks for good measure, Aiden rubbed his head beneath Gaetan’s chin and then returned to the dining table as if nothing had happened. Gaetan clambered off the floor and fell down opposite. “Got booze?” He glanced at Geralt, who slid him a brimmed flagon of ale. “Cheers.”

A few hours later, Aiden rolled over in bed and snuggled close to Lambert. He nuzzled his face into the bristle of his beard, and then slowly began to lick the line of his jaw; the rasp of the beard across the light prickles on his tongue always felt good. But it didn’t last long, because Lambert jerked away. “Wait,” the wolf squinted. “Are we fighting or fucking right now?”

Aiden blinked. “What?”

“With Gaetan, you–.”

“Oh,” Aiden chuckled. “Yeah. S’allright. I just needed to show him who’s boss.”

“By… licking him.”

“Hm,” Aiden hummed in acknowledgement, as if it were the most normal thing on the Continent.

A sigh. “Right… yeah, of course. And you, uh, you won, right?”

“Oh yeah, he’s my bitch.”

Lambert smirked. “Damn fucking right he is.”


	6. Knead the Lambert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _"Inspired slightly by the incredible and adorable idea that witchers have some behaviours of their associated animals, I can imagine Aiden doing the cat kneading thing before settling down against Lambert for the night."_
> 
> Aiden gives in to a very embarrassing compulsion…

Aiden stepped through the bedroom door and locked eyes on Lambert’s dozing form in the centre of the bed. He was wrapped in dense furs and thick blankets, with pillows scattered haphazardly around the outside. If there was a single vision on the Continent that represented heaven, then it was a naked, warm Lambert partially obscured by fur, bathed in firelight, all ready to be snuggled.

A shiver of anticipation ran down Aiden’s spine. _Oh,_ he wanted to—

_No. Resist. **Resist.**_

It wouldn’t hurt if he just… did it a little bit. If Lambert was mostly asleep, then he wouldn’t actually know, would he? Aiden’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as he lingered at the edge of the bed. “Lambert?” No response other than a deep, rumbling sigh. Still asleep.

Aiden glanced over his shoulder towards the closed door and slid onto the edge of the mattress. Was he doing this? _Yes,_ yes he was. His fingers ghosted over the top of the furs and his breath hitched. He could feel Lambert’s warmth, smell his freshly bathed skin and hear the soft, relaxed puff of his breathing punctuated by the odd sleepy snuffle. 

Oh, Aiden was _weak_ , and he was _wanting_. “Nnngh.”

The purr rose from somewhere deep inside his chest as he rested his palms in the furs over Lambert’s chest until it rivalled the crackle and pop of the fireplace. Another shudder of pleasure ran through him as he rippled his fingers, the fur pressing up between them, and gave in to the overwhelming, all-encompassing need to—

_—knead._

Yes, _yes, **yes.**_ Aiden’s eyes rolled back into his head as he pressed and squeezed his way over the warm furs with Lambert beneath. Knead, knead. His entire body alive with the tremor of his purr and the waves of tingling, contented pleasure that rivalled sex. The softness of the fur, the heat of the man, his love, his. _His._ Knead, _knead, **knead**._ Going to get nice and squishy, get Lambert all ready to be slept on, and it was going to be so good; so warm, and so comfortable. _Hnngh._

Aiden clambered onto the bed, and then straddled Lambert’s hips so that he could get a better angle on the expanse of his torso. His nails caught in the strands of fur, pulling away as he drove the opposing hand’s heel into the firm muscle beneath.

As he got into his rhythm, Aiden opened his eyes to watch the blankets undulate beneath his palms and looked straight into Lambert’s amused smirk. With a startled yelp, Aiden tried to throw himself off, only to have both his wrists snagged and forced back down onto Lambert’s chest. Aiden’s lower lip quivered with embarrassment, and Lambert’s grip relaxed, thumbs circling gently over the backs of Aiden’s hands. “Keep going, I like it.”

“You do?” Aiden half-squeaked.

“Yeah,” Lambert’s head cocked to the side. “And you’re enjoying yourself.” 

“It’s—I know it’s weird, I—,” Aiden couldn’t tear his gaze away from the warm, intense yellow eyes that watched him with… affection. That wasn’t judgement, it was affection. He relaxed and squeezed the furs within his grip with a pleased sigh. “Thank you.”

“Hmm,” Lambert released Aiden’s arms and tucked his own behind his head, eyes sliding closed. Aiden began to purr again, hands working over Lambert’s chest and stomach with deep, slow touches that savoured every inch of softness and warmth. Eventually, he curled up at Lambert’s side and fell asleep, body doughy and pliant. Lambert curled around him, trying not to vibrate with just how fucking _cute_ he was.


	7. Eat and Snooze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letho and Gaetan have been working together for a little while—they’re not yet Vipurr—and Gaetan discovers a secret that Letho works hard to hide from the world.

__

* * *

In the first few weeks of their partnership, Letho didn’t eat much. It worried Gaetan quite a lot, actually. The guy was the size of a juvenile Chort, so he had to need the fuel to get around, right? And _like fuck_ was he dragging his brawny ass out of a fight if he suddenly collapsed from exhaustion. Yet, whenever Gaetan asked—occasionally going as far as to push a meal into his lap for his own safety as well as Letho’s—Letho would simply shrug his shoulders. “Maybe later.”

He also didn’t seem to sleep much. Preferring to meditate and, even then, he often got up after a while to go do whatever outrageously big men did in the early hours of the morning. Gaetan pulled his cloak a little higher and tried to ignore the growing sense of unease.

The weight began to drop off as they headed south, but Letho became no less focused or lethal. Then they had a particularly lucrative contract and Letho steered them towards the nearest moderately sized town. It was dangerous for the both of them in bigger cities; there was a price on Gaetan’s head in most of Redania and Letho didn’t have much more luck in Aedirn or Kaedwen either, so it was only when they reached the warmer climes of the south that they could find some rest. _Ironic, really, if you thought about it._

Gaetan was expecting a quick meal, a wash in the backroom to refresh their bodies and clothes, then the usual bedroll and campfire combination in the nearby woodland. So, it was with some surprise that he watched Letho hand over nearly three quarters of his coin from the last job for a room and a wheelbarrow full of food. They bathed upstairs while they waited, and it took several trips for the entire order to arrive. There wasn’t a single inch of the table at the foot of the bed that wasn’t covered in a plate or bowl; they had to use the battered armchair in the corner to home a steaming pile of buttered carrots. 

“You should eat first,” Letho grunted, waving his hand absently at the food. “There won’t be much left when I’m done.” 

“I haven’t seen you eat more than a sparrow’s beak full since we started working together,” Gaetan grumbled, but grabbed himself a plate of meat and vegetables anyway. “There’s no fucking way you’re going to eat all this.”

“Hm,” Letho just smirked, grabbed a fork and set to work.

_Gaetan had never seen anything like it._ There was no miraculous unhinging of the jaw, but such a mutation might have made it a damn sight easier. Letho practically inhaled every plate set before him. He didn’t bother with additional seasoning on top of the salt and herbs already provided, nor did he appear particularly concerned with chewing all that much. Plate after plate loaded with meat, fruit and vegetables vanished into Letho’s stomach. Gaetan was so entranced by the whole spectacle that he almost forgot to eat himself. 

After half an hour, _everything_ was gone. Only bones and a little bit of unpleasant gristle from the cheaper cuts of meat remained on the plates, and Letho had washed it down with an entire pitcher of wine. The huge witcher lounged back in his seat, head flopped back, one palm resting on his distended stomach. _Was he still breathing? Had the food clogged his lungs?_ Gaetan returned his plate to the table. “You, uh, alright there, scales?”

Letho groaned quietly, and then managed to breathe an answer. “Yeah.” 

“Well, now I know why they call you Letho of _gullet._ Fuck,” Gaetan examined the empty plates, only to look up when Letho stumbled from his chair. “You… sure you’re alright?”

“Just… sleep,” Letho grumbled, and managed to stagger to the bed. As he threatened to spill right over the edge, Gaetan leapt from his chair and moved forward to assist. Between them they managed to get Letho in the centre of the paillasse, with his boots kicked off. Then the burrowing started. Gaetan backtracked as Letho pulled the covers over until not even the crown of his shaven head was visible and then the large sprawl of witcher curled up into a tight ball; Gaetan watched the mound diminish until it was just one heap in the very middle. Just like a snake finding somewhere warm and dark to hide.

Outside the occasional snort or grunt, Letho was completely silent. For nearly ten hours. Gaetan didn’t want to leave him. There were several moments when the boredom almost got the better of his judgement and he walked towards the door, but Letho would give a little shudder, or a quiet snuffle, and Gaetan would stalk right back to his chair. How could he leave him vulnerable like that? He just fucking couldn’t, could he? 

Rather than sit and stare at a wall, he decided to do a few experiments. He dropped and shattered one of the large plates to see if noise woke him—nothing. Shuffled some furniture around, tried having a conversation, opened the windows (and then closed them quickly because it was a lot colder than he was expecting and it actually felt a bit cruel). In the end—a whole ten hours later, in fact—he sat down on the edge of the bed and gave Letho a little prod. “Hey, scales, still alive?”

A muffled grunt, and then those serpentine eyes appeared from beneath the blanket. “‘M fine,” he grumbled. “Stop fussin’.”

“Well,” Gaetan crossed one leg over the other, hands clasped between his thighs, conversational in tone and posture. “See it from my perspective for a moment. I’ve just spent a month travelling with Big Scary Viper Witcher, who doesn’t appear to eat much or sleep like at all, and then we get a big job and he eats an entire cow, half a field of roast vegetables, an entire orchard of fruit, and then proceeds to fall unconscious for an entire day.”

“Mm,” Letho seemed to be digesting the possible issue. “Needed it. Mutagens.” His mind was clearly still waking up, so Gaetan cut him some slack.

“So, what… you eat and sleep once in a blue moon because of mutagens? Letho, even I know that some mutations can be overcome for the greater good and, you know, _comfort_.”

“It’s… not just that,” Letho decided he needed to uncurl for this, so Gaetan was momentarily jostled from the bed while the giant Witcher unfolded himself. A moment of silence settled as Letho made his final assessment of the man next to him. “If I eat, I have to sleep. And if I move too much, it…” he grunted, uncomfortable, “it all comes back up.”

“Oh, mate,” Gaetan raised an eyebrow. “Has that happened before?”

“Oh yeah,” Letho frowned. “Contract on some bottom dwelling nobility when I was first starting out. Had a large dinner and some ale. At Gorthur Gvaed all the routines were organised around eating at night, and then we’d all just crash out in a massive pile for a bit. I just thought it was—hmm, anyway. They warned me, I ignored it because I was arrogant. I learned my lesson.”

“So… why now? Do you usually go a whole frickin’ month?”

This was the hard part. Gaetan watched Letho’s face crinkle, one of those big palms wiping up his jaw, tracing the stubble. “I needed to know whether I could trust you, but I got desperate. Was losing concentration. Needed more food and sleep than just a bit here and there.”

“Right,” Gaetan folded his arms. It was difficult to trust a Cat—he understood that—but part of him was always a little put out when he had to work harder than everyone else to prove he was a half decent person. Only half; the other half was a feral bastard. “What’ve you decided?”

“Apart from your little experiments,” Letho smirked, and Gaetan fought his own. “You sat with me for ten hours and didn’t stab me, or steal my shit.”

“That’s a pretty low bar for trust,” Gaetan raised an eyebrow. He understood though. Of course he did. He and Letho were two halves of a chipped coin that’d been summarily abused by every person that had handled it. The next words bubbled to the front of his mind unbidden and he rubbed the back of his head self-consciously. “Maybe I can, you know, help you raise the bar a bit. Or… uh, if I prove to you you’re safe, and I’ll keep an eye, will you eat and sleep more often?”

Letho looked briefly confused, lips turned down in a frown, but once he’d considered it nodded slowly. “Yeah, I… I’d like to.”

“You’d like to? As in, you’ve actually been hurting this whole time and just said fuck all?”

There was that frown again. It dragged every feature on his face down and creased his otherwise smooth brow. “It’s just the way it is…”

“ _Fuck_ the way it is,” Gaetan poked the bed with his finger to drive home his point. “Go back to sleep, scales. I’ll keep watch, and once you’re awake, we’re talking about the difference between existing and living.” He reached over and patted the Viper on the side of the jaw before leaving the edge of the bed. “One more question. Do you bite if you’re scared?”

“Uh,” Letho cleared his throat. “Grew out of that one.”

Gaetan’s eyes blew wide in adoration at the thought of a Baby Letho nipping his instructor because he’d been spooked, but as much as he wanted to sit and grill him on everything mutagen related, Letho still looked drawn. “Go to sleep. I’ve got your back, you stupid snake.” 

“Hm,” Letho smirked and slowly disappeared beneath the blankets again. He either liked it or needed it to rest properly; Gaetan made a note to ask more detailed questions later. For now, he took up his post in the chair by the door and busied himself with his journal. ‘ _Learned something new today. Scales is a literal snake. Maybe it’s okay to purr around him. Will investigate at a later date.’_


	8. Angry Kitty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Gaetan is getting better at asking for affection when he needs it. Letho’s endless patience is the balm to his chaotic anger._

“I’ve fucking had it!” Gaetan threw his swords down onto the rough-hewn planks of their current hiding place. It was an old manor house—or rather, _what was left of it_ —abandoned since the unstoppable march of Nilfgaard into the northern kingdoms swallowed the surrounding area whole. There was a roof, a fireplace, and plenty of blankets lying about. Luxury compared to sleeping outside in the autumn rain. 

“They not pay you?” Letho glanced up from his sewing.

“No,” Gaetan snarled. “They paid me half. And you know what? I should’ve taken the rest in blood. That’s the third fucking village that’s screwed us over. What’re they expecting us to do? Magic equipment out of thin fucking air? See if I help the next lot with their alghoul problem, see if I—.”

Gaetan continued to storm around the expanse of the room, unhooking his thigh bag full of potions and unbuckling the plates of his armour. The last thing to hit the deck was his gambeson, until he was storming about in a just his billowing grey shirt and wool trousers. Letho leaned back in his nest of pillows and blankets. _And waited._

His small ball of fury was standing in the centre of the room, fists clenched, still spitting and cussing, but he was eyeing Letho’s lap and hands with intent. A pause. Letho adjusted and leaned back, presenting the bountiful surface of his thighs for further consideration. Gaetan, who was still mid-tirade, decided that it would be far more pleasant to be comfortable, warm and angry, rather than aching, cold and angry. He stalked over and planted his ass in the centre of Letho’s lap, shaven head immediately pushing beneath that angular jaw. 

“Like I was saying, they’re dicks, all of them. I was professional, tidy, I brought back more proof than I usually do—,” Letho stroked Gaetan’s back first; big, open palmed circles until tight muscles began to ease. He worked his way up to the back of his neck and squeezed ever so slightly, before dropping down to hunched shoulders, “—and then, they had the cheek to suggest I misremembered the amount they offered. _Think ye’ got yer numbers wrong, witcha’._ Fuck off did I get my numbers wrong, and—Letho, _higher_ —then the pitchforks started looking a little sharp, and you know how much I hate pitchforks.” 

“Mmhm,” Letho murmured, thumb smoothing over the back of Gaetan’s right shoulder. “But you walked away. That’s a good thing.”

“Why should I have to walk away? It’s not fucking fair. I put my— _harder,_ lower, right… _ahh_ , yeah, right there—I put my ass on the line, and they don’t even pay me. You know what? I’m going to quit. I’m going to be a fucking baker, Letho.”

“A stabby baker,” Letho nudged and adjusted Gaetan until they were facing each other, Gaetan’s knees either side of Letho’s hips. “You can’t poison people you don’t like either.”

“Then what’s the point in being a baker?” Gaetan’s voice grew softer as Letho continued his gentle massage. Those hands were so big, but so tender. His litany of anger faded, until his eyes began to slide closed. Letho’s heart beat strong and true beneath his ear, and his deep, rich scent underpinned that of the burning cedarwood logs in the firepit. “Mm. Could be worse.”

“Why’s that?”

“Could be on my own, couldn’t I?” Gaetan whispered, head tilting for a gentle nuzzle against the side of Letho’s neck.

“Mm.” Letho grinned and closed his eyes. _You’ll never be alone again, moggy._


	9. Old Witchers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many decades after the Purges, the remaining members of the Witcher brotherhood gather together to restore Kaer Morhen and build something of a home for themselves. As the younger generation forge a new way of life, the three remaining relics of the old system have only each other to turn to when the demons of the past trouble their dreams.

* * *

Guxart stretched lazily over Vesemir’s legs. He’d been dozing on and off for the last two hours, occasionally listening to snippets of the novel the old wolf was reading. Their shared quarters were pleasantly warm, with scents of cinnamon and clove curling from the candle on the nightstand. In reality, Guxart was far more interested in the hand that scratched through his hair; the sensation coaxed a purr from deep in his chest, eyes blowing wide in the dim candlelight. 

The rest of the castle was silent but for Kaer Morhen’s usual sorrowful song, but even that was muted now that the remaining members of the Witcher order had gathered together to rebuild her ruined walls and make themselves a permanent home. _Together._ Like it always should have been. His senses stretched down the corridors anyway, keen ears listening to the quiet scurry of mice through the rafters, the cracking of the fire… and the soft footfalls arriving outside their door. He looked up before the knock.

Vesemir blinked awake - the old boy had dozed off halfway through a paragraph, his hand wound through Guxart’s hair - and cleared his throat. “Come in.” 

The handle dipped, the hinges creaked, and Keldar’s greying head popped around the side of the door. “Sorry to disturb you, I - umm, I have a peculiar request.” 

The old griffin had arrived several months ago from what remained of Kaer Seren. Upon seeing Kaer Morhen’s library - slowly rebuilt as more and more Witchers descended on the keep with what they’d salvaged from their own schools’ destruction - he’d fallen to his knees and wept. 

With each new arrival, Vesemir had taken their books, scrolls and other documentation, placed it in the library and closed the damned door. Keldar was a librarian, a hoarder of knowledge and a fastidious organiser; he was exactly what Vesemir needed to bring some order to the chaos. What did a _fencing instructor_ know about conservation and the appropriate storage of academia? Keldar took to his new purpose with gusto. It would take him years, but he was determined to contribute to the salvation of his brethren in his own way.

Vesemir raised an eyebrow. “Of course, come in, close the draught out,” he murmured, adjusting the blankets that weren’t pinned by Guxart’s bulk. The old griffin slid through the small gap he’d created and closed the door behind him. He was wrapped in a thick woollen cloak, his bare legs visible beneath the hem.

“It’s - uh, the mountain,” Keldar stuttered out, tugging at the material of his nightshirt. It wasn’t hard to see the shame embedded in the lines of his face. “I can hear it.”

Such a statement would have sounded insane to an outsider, but Guxart and Vesemir both gazed upon their friend with concern. There was a reason Keldar listened to the movements of the mountain. The mages had buried Kaer Seren under one in retaliation when the griffins had refused to share their arcane knowledge. Everything Keldar had ever known - ever cherished, ever loved - was swept away by an avalanche. The deep, guttural rumbles of the Blue Mountains were a harbinger of death that his mind simply couldn’t ignore. 

“I thought, perhaps, I would find some company… helpful,” - _comforting_ , he meant _comforting_ \- “I can sleep on the floor, of course; by the fire is perfectly fine, more than acceptable, but I understand if it’s a bother.”

It took a lot of courage to seek help and Keldar had nowhere else to go. He couldn’t very well join the piles of much younger men snoozing in the various rooms of Kaer Morhen; they were once his students. Vesemir, Guxart and Keldar all occupied the same uncomfortable niche in the new order. They were relics of the old system, uncomfortable reminders and sources of knowledge all at the same time. If they each sought comfort from their demons - the ghosts of those they’d lost - the only comfort to be found was in the company of just two others. 

They’d grown close very quickly. Both Guxart and Vesemir harboured great affection for the third member of their lonely triad. Offers of more intimate company had been politely declined each time, and it hadn’t taken long for either of them to realise that Keldar didn’t have an appetite for such things. That was absolutely fine. There were so many different ways you could demonstrate your love for a person.

“The floor, huh,” Guxart sniffed. “Come here. In bed with us.”

“I didn’t want to intrude, I - .”

“We all did it as boys, Keldar,” Vesemir chipped in, nudging Guxart over so that he could make some room. “Come. Just like when we were young.”

The griffin walked over to the edge of the bed and gazed down at the warm spot made for him. Guxart patted the mattress expectantly, and Keldar dropped his cloak from his shoulders to climb in. There was a little bit of residual awkwardness; he turned inwards towards Vesemir, who looked back to his book in search of the paragraph dry enough to send him to sleep. Guxart, who’d never been one to withhold affection, spooned around Keldar’s back, one arm draped over so that he could still rest a hand on Vesemir, and _purred._

The change was gradual. A slow release of tension as Keldar melted into the comfort of Guxart’s purr and the reassuring proximity of the wolf nearby. His eyes closed and his shoulders relaxed; the distant rumble of the mountain muted by the presence of the only two men in the world that understood… _everything._

Eventually a new sound joined Guxart and the crackling-snap of the fire; a quiet, bubbling coo of pure contentment.


	10. Breakfast Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert’s used to the new routines of mornings at Kaer Morhen that have evolved since every witcher on the Continent moved in. Breakfast time is no exception. Warnings: none, pure fluff and cute-agen.

* * *

Mornings in Kaer Morhen followed a similar pattern every day. The Griffins were early birds (“Lambert, in terms of humour, that is low hanging fruit”) and rose even before the sun had shaken off its eye mask. They liked to get in some Sign practice before breakfast; the crack of Aard as it whipped repeatedly through the frigid winter air had become Lambert’s rooster call. 

He kicked Aiden out of bed with a soft groan of effort and then fell out the other side. A hand swept over his beard as he looked into the cracked mirror above the wash basin, and he decided against the extra effort of a prune that morning. When he looked back, Aiden had already gone, the door hanging open. Because the morning equalled food and holy fuck were the Cats ravenous bastards.

When Lambert arrived in the kitchen, it’s already brimming with Witchers. Even though the majority of the schools waited patiently in the dining hall, jostling each other for space on the long lines of narrow benches, the Cats just didn’t have it in them to wait. At first, Vesemir periodically lost his temper, thwapping stray hands with his wooden spoon and cuffing any head that leaned in too close to his pastries. However, now he was just resigned to the constant brush of bodies against him as he worked with Guxart and Keldar to feed their small army of hungry mouths. Sometimes the others chipped in to help, but the three older members of the new Order liked to carve out their own niche of usefulness.

Guxart was an artisan at corralling the members of his school while remaining completely focused on his task. He shifted Gaetan away from the bacon without breaking stride, placing a hand over his face and nudging him until he retreated. He lifted Aiden off the side where he’d perched near the pastries and fluttered his fingers at Kirah as she nosed a little too close to the freshly risen bread. Kiyan managed to steal himself a pitcher of orange juice just as Vesemir nearly tripped over Dragonfly; she was crouched expectantly by the griddle pan, nostrils flaring at the smell of cooking fat. Lambert plucked the juice from Kiyan’s hands on the way past. 

Lambert placed the jug down in the middle of the workspace and grabbed Aiden by the waist to stop him pawing at Guxart’s elbow. The Grandmaster of the Cat School was busy placing fruit into a large bowl. “Need any help?”

“No, we’ve got it covered,” Guxart murmured, stepping over Cedric without even looking down at him. “If you could scruff Gaetan and Aiden, take them to the dining hall, that would be useful. They keep jumping onto the surfaces.”

“Gotcha,” Lambert snagged the two aforementioned men; Aiden by the wrist, Gaetan by the waist and herded them towards the door. As he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Guxart nudge against Vesemir’s shoulder with an inquisitive rumble. He was rewarded with a small sliver of bacon and Lambert could practically feel his purr of triumph as he lorded it over his kits. There were audible grumbles of “favouritism”.

The food didn’t take long to reach the grand hall. The School of the Wolf waited patiently – obediently – at the end of the table, but Eskel always bounced a little in his seat when the bacon arrived, with Geralt quick to scoop up the pot of honey for his porridge. Lambert sat in their midst, watching the Bears shove fruit and steamed fish in their mouths, the Cats occasionally carry food away from the table to eat it elsewhere—he had no fucking idea why they did that—and the Griffins peck at fruit and bread. Eskel leaned in close. “Alright?” 

“Yeah, fine, just thinkin’ how fucking batshit crazy it is to have everyone in one place,” Lambert replied.

“Hm,” Eskel hummed thoughtfully, but his eyes were on Lambert’s plate, “you, uh… gonna’ eat that?” He indicated the bacon and Lambert rolled his eyes as he shoved it over. It was gone in seconds.


	11. Orange Peel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keldar adds a new arrival to the library’s collection and his two lovers prove that age doesn’t lessen a penchant for mischief. Warnings: kissing, a very brief reference to smut but nothing explicit; just love and soft. Keldar is ace. He has learned that he does enjoy kissing (previously he had avoided it because he believed his partner would see it as a gateway to more, and he didn’t want to disappoint them), and sometimes he likes to be there while his two partners make love, but this is rare and dependent on how he feels at the time.

Keldar ran his finger down the booklist. After two years, he had finally organised the library into something resembling order. The younger Witchers, some of whom had never had access to such a wealth of information in one place, were growing more confident in navigating the rituals of reading and borrowing, which made his life a whole lot easier.

The catalogue was arranged roughly by subject, with each book given an abbreviated title in Elder Speech, because he was old-fashioned like that. The composite manuscript in his arms had belonged to the School of the Bear. He’d removed the curse bestowed upon it by the anathema written on the inside of the cover—originally to prevent stealing, you understand—because Witchers were a superstitious bunch, and now it had to be placed in its new home.

The inscription on the spine read _‘Master Tybalt’ſ Annalſ on Changing Gakrain Migration Habitſ & Behaviourſ. VI. LIBRI. T.7’._ The T7 indicated that this had been the seventh work of Tybalt’s to exist in the library at Haern Caduch but, by the good grace of Melitele, Keldar had eleven of Master Tybalt’s works stored away in a chest under one of the long windows. This book would now join its brothers in that chest. Keldar opened the front cover with tender admiration, shifting his inkpot a little closer. The press-mark would be simple enough: ‘ _in armario nostro magister Tybalti’;_ in the chest of our Master Tybalt.

The door of the library opened, allowing a sharp gust of cold air into the room, and then closed softly. The footfalls were soft and measured, betraying a fluid grace that had come to be the envy of every witcher—school of the cat. The new arrival settled by the fire and the saccharine scent of a peeling orange wafted past Keldar’s nose.

 _A peeling orange_.

“Grandmaster Guxart,” the old griffin sighed, “I know that you couldn’t possibly be eating in my library because you are fully aware of the rules and the resulting ban if I catch you.”

He received a soft hum in acknowledgement and decided to finish his sentence before he turned. The moment he entertained Guxart and his mischief, he knew he’d get nothing more done that afternoon. The wily old cat had a way of sucking people in—sucking Keldar in. Guxart was fascinating, debonair and far too damned handsome for his own good. No witcher should be allowed to maintain such a roguish countenance into his senior years. It was entirely unsporting.

Keldar placed the quill back into the inkpot, left Master Tybalt’s composite manuscript open to dry, and turned to reprimand his unruly guest. There was no sign of the orange flesh or peel, but Keldar could definitely scent it on the air. Yellow eyes narrowed, he tucked his hands behind his back and strolled over. Guxart’s pupils blew wide, and with every step closer, Keldar could hear the rumbling purr grow louder. It was all part of the trap, Keldar knew. That purr lulled him to sleep every night, made him feel safe and adored; Guxart wielded it now like a shield against Keldar’s wrath. _It was working._

“Where is it?”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” said Guxart airily.

“I have work to do.” Keldar tried for reason, but they both knew it was too late. Guxart had sprawled himself on the long couch by the fire. There were two armchairs at either end and a low table. The latter still held a couple of candle trays from the night before; Keldar had rather lost himself in a story about one of the Elder Gods and lost track of time. He sat stiffly on the cushion at Guxart’s side, the smell of orange growing stronger.

They didn’t speak. Guxart held up his arms to present himself for the search, and Keldar puffed an exasperated sigh through his nose before reaching forward. He ran his palms over the soft linen of Guxart’s shirt, and down his sides, patting lightly in search of bumpy peel or squashed fruit flesh. The body beneath his hands was firm, warm and comforting; the scent of citrus underlaid by the deeper, softer musk of the man’s natural smell. Keldar leaned in to pat around Guxart’s belt and trousers, palms working up his back. _Where was that damned orange—?_

Gentle fingers brushed over his jaw, calloused tips rasping across the stubble to the soft skin behind his ear. He looked up through silver lashes to meet those big eyes and surrendered immediately to the gentle mouth that closed over his lower lip. “Vagrant,” Keldar sighed, but it was no use. He’d fallen into this trap willingly. Strong hands guided him closer, one resting at his waist while the other carded slowly through his hair. The pleasure of such a simple act of intimacy licked up his spine, coalescing in a well of warmth and affection around his heart.

With Vesemir, Guxart was firmer, hungrier. They tugged, and pushed, and nipped at each other; wolf and cat at play. It was always playful and Keldar enjoyed watching it, but they both treated him with more reverence. A lesser man might be insulted by such tender care—he was not weak, nor broken—but Keldar revelled in it. There was no room for tenderness in a Witcher’s life, so to have such easy access to it in his winter years was a delight.

Keldar rested one hand on Guxart’s chest, that deep, indulgent purr rumbling up his wrist and tingling under his fingers. He tugged the linen of Guxart’s shirt aside and rested his other palm against his bronze skin. There was a scar that ran over his hip and beneath the waistband of his trousers, and Keldar teased a fingertip over it, following the grooves and ridges until the man in his arms shivered. Their mouths parted briefly, Guxart laced teasing, nibbling kisses down the line of Keldar’s jaw, and Keldar hummed. “You’re a menace.”

“Mmhm,” Guxart murmured. “I missed you last night.”

“Did Vesemir not wear you out enough?”

“He did. But I dislike the space in our bed after.”

Keldar’s heart swelled, body clenching briefly in thrill, and then Guxart’s mouth returned to his. The kiss was just as languid, just as affectionate as before. Their tongue brushed together, soft lips closing over their partner’s as they tasted and worshipped. Kissing hadn’t been something Keldar had enjoyed before Vesemir and Guxart, because it always had to lead to something. No one kissed for kissing’s sake. It was a precursor to more physical intimacy. The intimacy that Keldar simply could not give.

But that wasn’t the case with his wolf and cat. They never pushed. They asked, of course. Both men were very plain speaking; they liked to know the boundaries, they liked to be clear. But when Keldar had carefully—painfully—outlined his reservations and… proclivities, they hadn’t debated him. They had accepted it all; accepted him, accepted his boundaries and his feelings, accepted that there were other ways for them to demonstrate their love, should they have any to spare.

Keldar melted into Guxart now, because he could do so without fear. The kiss was their intimacy. The slow, sultry joining of their lips and tongues, the gentle stroke of Guxart’s hands around Keldar’s neck, his jaw, through his hair. Every part of Keldar glowed in adoration of this charming, roguish cat that loved and respected him in return. They parted for air, and Keldar tilted his head back so that Guxart could nose around his throat, the warm tip running beneath the curve of his jaw to his ear with a contented rumble. “I love you, silly bird. Must I lure you into my arms with citrus fruit every afternoon?”

“No,” Keldar chuckled. “The arrival of that retinue of the bears has kept me busy. I sometimes forget that Haern Caduch was more or less untouched. I dread to think what damage the ice and snow has wrought on their collection though, I—.”

“What we have now will always be better than before,” Guxart whispered, lips brushing the slow thrum of the pulse in Keldar’s neck. “No use worrying over things you can’t control.”

“Hmm.”

They lounged together in silence, listening to the crackling snap of the fire, until the door to the library opened and closed again. This time the iron bolt slid across moments later, and both looked at the new arrival expectantly. Vesemir had finished training with the wolves and the cats in the courtyard. The scent of soap and hot springs meant that he’d stopped off to bathe before seeking out his mates. “You need to have a word with Gaetan,” he grumbled. “If he keeps antagonising Eskel like he is, he’s going to get himself blasted off the comb.”

“He finds Eskel attractive,” Guxart said, adjusting so that he could wrap an arm around Vesemir’s shoulder when the old wolf fell in on his other side. “It’ll last as long as it takes to get him into bed or an outright rejection.”

“Ahh,” Keldar grinned. “So, he’s pulling the big wolf’s proverbial pigtails, hm?”

Vesemir grunted. “Must be a cat thing.”

“I never pulled your pigtails,” Guxart threw a leg over Vesemir’s lap, making himself a little more comfortable. Keldar noted the swell of an erection in the front of his trousers and made plans to look for some refreshments in the kitchen while his wolf and cat rutted it out of their system. They were gentlemen and would go no further unless he left, or gave his consent to do so in his presence. Sometimes it was nice to cradle one of them while they fell to pieces; the looks of pleasure, the soft mewls they made, all beautiful. It happened most often in the weak light of the early morning, when the bed was warm and their bodies still loose and sleepy. Keldar cradled Guxart’s head while he moaned softly, Vesemir working into him lazily.

“No, I do recall you kicking my backside in the training fields though, and taking a kind of sadistic glee in it.”

“Sadistic,” Guxart tutted. “I’m wounded.”

“Spade’s a spade.” Vesemir leaned over to bump foreheads with Keldar, before slumping into the cradle of Guxart’s arm. Keldar basked in their company for a little while, accepting lazy kisses from Guxart as they all spread their senses into the castle beyond the library’s walls. The griffins were practising signs in the courtyard; the vipers were working in the stillrooms alongside their three manticore guests. The wolves, the cats and the bears were too distant to tell.

Finally, his stomach growling pointedly, Keldar began to extract himself. “I’ll head to the kitchens and find us some lunch.”

“If you’re hungry,” Guxart said, his grin mischievous, “you could always eat the rest of my orange.” It appeared at Vesemir’s shoulder, partially peeled and perfectly round. A truly impressive sleight of hand.

Keldar blustered and dug his fingers into Guxart’s ribs for revenge. The cat squirmed and yowled, trapped against Vesemir, who was more than happy to keep him secure for Keldar’s retribution. “You blaggard!” the griffin squawked. “You’re worse than the youngest members of your damned school, you tomcat, kittens like grandmaster, I see. You deserve this!”

“Keldar, mercy! Have mercy!”

Keldar did not have mercy. In fact, he ‘attacked’ until Guxart was breathless, wheezing. Agile fingers skittered over ribs, beneath arms, relentless and expertly aimed. With his prey subdued, sprawled over Vesemir’s lap and panting, the griffin left with a gentle peck to his nose. “I’ll bring some wine. Don’t soil the couch.”

Keldar cast one final glance over his shoulder as he left. The two men he’d grown to love so ardently wound together in a deep kiss; Vesemir slid a hand beneath the ties of Guxart’s trousers and he moaned softly. They were beautiful, wise and loving. And they were his.

> ** _Additional notes_ ** _: Keldar was the librarian/archivist at Kaer Seren. He has had to build the library at Kaer Morhen up from, well… ashes. As the new schools arrive, they bring him what survives of their own collections. It’s a truly mammoth task. I’ve referenced medieval monastic libraries in this (not in huge detail). And yes, he writes in Latin, not Elder Speech, but there is limited availability of Elder Speech for my purposes._


End file.
